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“Mommy… we have to run. Now.”
It wasn’t the dramatic kind of whisper children use during pretend games.
It came from somewhere older than six years.
Sharp. Urgent. Terrified.
I was at the kitchen sink, rinsing breakfast dishes. The house still smelled like coffee and lemon cleaner — the scent I used when I wanted to feel like everything was under control.
Derek had kissed my forehead thirty minutes earlier, rolling his suitcase behind him, promising he’d be back Sunday night.
He’d seemed almost cheerful.
Lily stood in the doorway in her socks, clutching the hem of her pajama shirt as if holding herself together.
“What?” I laughed softly — a reflex, because my brain was trying to protect me. “Why would we run?”
She shook her head violently. Her eyes were shining.
“There’s no time,” she whispered again. “We have to leave the house right now.”
My stomach tightened.
“Sweetheart, slow down. Did you hear something? Did someone—”
She grabbed my wrist. Her hand was damp with sweat.